


A Year of Lilies

by ohtobealady



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M, Grief/Mourning, Minor Character Death, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:20:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25291564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohtobealady/pseuds/ohtobealady
Summary: 1895, heralded by cheers and chimes, leads Robert Crawley to reflect on his parents, wife, children, estate - his life. He comes to realize how, in a single moment, life can change forever - a single moment with the gravity of decades, the effects felt by everyone in a myriad of often unseen ways. This is a story of heartbreak and joy, death and life, and navigating tides of change.
Relationships: Cora Crawley/Robert Crawley
Comments: 3
Kudos: 11





	1. Prologue - New Year's Eve 1894

_"The new year begins in a snow-storm of white vows." - George William Curtis_

* * *

**Prologue**

_**New Year’s Eve, 1894** _

He looked at her. Over the champagne and the laughter, he looked at her. He looked and he watched the lines around her mouth transform her smooth face into something twinkling, shimmering even, when she smiled. And he felt his chest burn warmer at the sight. 

It was this, after all, the unguarded way the roundness of her face grew fuller and sweeter, the shallow lines that puckered at her cheeks . . . yes, it was this that he loved most about her. For as English as Mama had tried to teach her to become, as soft as her vowels tried to lie, and as gentle as her teacup could touch its saucer, it was the lines around her laughter that remained the same. 

And it made him love her so much more. So terribly, terribly much more.

Of course he'd never tell Cora this, certainly not as they stood nearer one another, so near he could easily smell the jasmine on her wrists and throat; so near he felt he could feel the blue of her gaze, the glow of her cheek. No. He'd never say aloud how his chest felt all aflame as he watched her, how his romantic nature recited Byron as her eyes sparkled up toward his. No; instead he smiled briefly at her, nodded in reply to her soft touch at his arm, and he turned away, letting his palm find the small of her corseted back. 

The champagne in his glass danced with bubbles, waltzing and then vanishing against the glass flute. His family gathered nearer: his sister, his brother-in-law, Mama, Papa, and Cora. Cora, who drew ever closer to his side. 

And as Papa’s voice rumbled about, the dainty chimes of midnight helping him to beckon kisses and toasts, Robert said a quick prayer. A wish. A resolution. 1895 would be the year. It would be the year for a new child -- a son. It would be the year for a long overdue reconciliation with his Papa -- to bury the disillusionment of his father that the entail had cast. It would be the year for cherishing better the two little girls asleep upstairs in their feather-down beds -- his little girls. 

“Happy New Year!” 

His mother and father shared a small, chaste kiss. Rosamund and Marmaduke laughed and finished their flutes of champagne. Cora’s cheek was warm and soft and he pressed his lips to the side of her mouth.

“To 1895!”

 _Yes,_ Robert’s prayer answered. _To 1895._


	2. Chapter Two - January

**Chapter I  
_January_**

Robert shifted beneath the warmth of the blankets, and sighing, opened his eyes. The rustle of cotton sheets echoed coldly in the dark, and Robert squinted to the clock beside him but in vain. Regardless of the dark hour, he knew it was morning. Cora dozed by his side, her hand that lay upon his pillow twitching slightly. The fire had not yet been laid and the curtains of Cora’s bedroom remained drawn tightly together, cloaking signs of life beyond the two of them, and it warmed him. 

It must have snowed again, he thought, for there was the accompanying quiet that only comes with a night’s snowfall, a silence that somehow makes everything else seem louder. But there was nothing else, no other sounds beyond the small whisper of his movement and the soft in and out of his wife’s breath beside him. Robert found that he regretted waking at all, and he rather wished he was still dreaming, nestled closely to his wife.

Of course, it wasn’t to be helped. It’d become routine. It wasn’t the first time this week that he’d been up before the servants, Papa’s sudden trip to London throwing everything into confusion. The meals had to be reworked. The servants’ ball scheduled for Thursday next had to be postponed. The London residence had to be opened at once, and Mama’s poor humor could only be assuaged with the greatest distance one could manage in a solitary house, big as it was. But Papa saw no other way. After all, the Lords returned to the House four days prior, the Christmas recess ending just the Tuesday before, and Papa said he felt it an obligation to go. 

_ Obligation. _

Robert had scoffed at the excuse; Papa always felt it an obligation, but Robert knew better. 

The truth was that while Patrick did care for the estate, there was no feeling beyond that. There was nothing beyond the pride and dedication to it, the feelings that seemed to be inherited, Robert feeling them even as a child. But while Papa undoubtedly felt care, he couldn’t bear to stay at the estate for long. He nearly even dreaded it. He’d told Robert so only three years before as they were driven about a cold and wet London, bouncing against one another in a too-small carriage toward Regent Street. 

“It’s the inescapable cold that seeps into one’s bones,” Papa had said as the footman helped him out of the carriage. “It’s the creaking and cracking of windows in the frost and the floors of the icy washroom biting at one’s feet!”

Robert remembered watching his father say this and simultaneously smile at a passerby, and then again at a sales clerk who held open the door of Hamleys for them. Their faces were bright with excitement, and Robert had then listened distantly at Papa expressing what joy he felt at buying his new granddaughter her first Christmas gifts.

It was a day Robert now remembered with some unease, the memory leaving him with the feeling one gets from eating a few too many sweets. For as Papa talked more and more, Robert learned what he’d always assumed about his father: Patrick did not like Downton. 

Perhaps he never had, that it had been thrust upon him in much the same way that Robert had always assumed it would be thrust upon himself. Of course none of this was a matter of responsibility, of respect, or even gratitude for the role God had chosen him to fulfill. These things Papa felt in full; these things were palpably there, and they created a weight that seemed to hang around him. A dangerous weight - a weight that suffocated fondness, a weight that had laced Papa’s too-cheerful voice when he spoke to Robert that day. When he had said what had woken Robert from his reverie of soft knit blankets and pale pink bows and silver rattles with his child’s name etched onto the stem. 

“And so Cora’s not had an heir,” he’d shrugged. “We will have Mary to enjoy until she does.” 

Even lying in the dark, next to Cora’s soft whisper of breath, he could hear those words again and again.

_ Until she does _

The words seemed to stick in that moment, and Robert’s mind only heard those words thereafter, though his eyes had remembered what his father had done. He’d smiled, he’d chuckled at the Noah’s Ark toy display, he’d pointed toward a glass doll, and his mouth had moved as if he were saying something more. But Robert still only remembered that word. The word that darkened the glow of new fatherhood. The word that dulled the sensation of flight he felt when he held his infant daughter.

_ Until.  _

Mary had been so small. Seven weeks old. 

They conceived Edith within the three weeks that followed.

Robert swallowed and pulled the covers over him again, his wife exhaling sleepily at the change beside her. He couldn’t get past it. Robert couldn’t remain still now. Early mornings like this, they forced him to acknowledge it. Acknowledge what he’d done.

She’d been born out of that word -  _ until _ . His second child had been created under that same precious weight that touched at his father’s words, at least on Robert’s part. Not Cora’s. He knew that now. And, too, he knew that he felt ashamed as he lay in his wife’s dark, cold room. 

Indeed, he suddenly felt ashamed of more things than he cared to admit. For the longer he considered it, he wasn’t sure he minded Papa’s being away. It certainly meant more work for himself. It meant more stress, more aggravation, more dealings with Barnes, and Murray, and Jarvis as well who always seemed to look at him in some strange condescending way. 

But it also meant that Robert didn’t have to face what he didn’t understand. He didn’t have to name the feeling that lurked around the thoughts of his father. It was the same feeling he’d felt nearly six years before, when his father had told him Downton would be lost. Mismanagement. 

Oh, of course he loved Papa. He was devoted to him. He wanted desperately to gain his approval, to have his blessing and his support in everything. 

However, he was lying beside Cora, and he was listening to her quiet breath. No, he couldn’t help but to think of something more: Her name. It was a queer thought, but a thought he turned over in his mind nonetheless. Her name. His wife’s name, her maiden name, scratched in loops and curls at the bottom of a document, the signature of Grantham marked dutifully besides. And it was this, this thought, that made Robert realize something he was not proud of, something he wished had stayed silent in the snow outside of her room. It wasn’t disillusionment. No.

Robert did not like his father.

* * *

“There you are.” 

Cora smiled up at him as he reentered her bedroom, a room that unlike hours before was bright and blue, a fire popping in the hearth. Cora dressed in her velvety pink looked warm and alive here, and her maid, a slightly older, short, unhappy woman, stood behind her settling a pin in the pompadour atop Cora’s head. The woman had not looked to Robert as he came inside, but rather leaned this way and that, inspecting her handiwork in the vanity’s reflection. Robert chortled softly at the seriousness of such work, but then stopped short. Both women, then, had looked over at the noise, unamused. Robert cleared his throat, smiled contritely, and nodded. 

“You look very nice,” he amended pleasantly, and Cora fluttered her eyes away.

“Thank you, darling,” she hummed. 

Taking her tone as a sign of forgiveness, Robert fell into the armchair nearest the vanity and watched his wife finger a dark curl that fell around her ear. He smiled. 

“Were you looking for me?” 

“No. Not exactly,” he settled deeper into the chair, and he thumbed the arm of it. “But Mama has asked for you.”

“Oh, dear.” Cora’s pale eyes cut toward him, and Robert suppressed a chuckle at her dismay. Rolling them back toward the mirror, she sighed. He watched, then, as she looked back at Perkins and dismissed her by a quick grin that sent the small woman quickly collecting the things to be taken down. Cora remained quiet meanwhile, taking a bottle of perfume from the tabletop and gently pressing the stick to her wrists. The scent of jasmine filled the space.

When the click of the door meant that they were alone again, Cora let out a deep breath. “What is it this time? Is it the flowers? Or perhaps it’s the menu for the servant’s ball that she was absolutely determined for me to bungle.”

She replaced the perfume, the glass clinking rather undaintily against the tabletop.

“I'm sure it wasn't-”

Cora whirled toward him, “The invitations for the tenants?”

“What?”

“Oh,” she turned on her stool again, lifting from around her neck the long string of pearls that rest there as she spoke. “Only she dropped the list into my lap at the last minute and I haven't any time at all to address them.”

“Haven't you?” Robert narrowed his gaze. “You are in your room in the middle of the morning.”

“Perkins had to help me.”

“Help you? You were dressed hours ago.”

“Just a headache is all.” Her dress brushed against the fabric of the stool as she stood.

“A headache?” Robert smiled quickly to himself, and then furrowed his brow as Cora glanced to him, pretending as if the question was not as laden with hope as of course it was. “ You aren’t feeling ill, I hope?”

“No.” She pulled at the bodice of her gown and then twisted away from the mirror, moving with purpose past him, but pausing and leaning suddenly toward him to say, “It was an uncomfortable hairpin.”

He appreciated her flirting, then, for however playful he asked there was a shadow of desperation. Edith had been born in September of 1892. Cora, having given birth twice in the space of 11 months, was told to wait half a year before conceiving again. The doctor had pulled Robert aside, the image of his wife tenderly kissing his newborn daughter’s forehead in the periphery of his vision, and had told him.

“I know you may be anxious for another, but it is best to wait.”

Robert had blinked in disbelief. His second daughter had been born for barely an hour.

“Six months, at least. I’ve suggested that the viscountess should wean the child as it can heal the womb more efficiently. To ready it for another. So, there’s no need to employ a nurse.”

Cora had fallen pregnant easily enough before; there was no fear then. Robert rather longed for that past version of himself -- the version who resented Dr. Warren for speaking so, the version who felt happy, hot anticipation to try again. For now, a year and ten months since, there was little anticipation and more . . . impatience. Nearly two years had stretched on and on without success, and Robert felt in some way that time was running short, that Cora’s signature at the bottom of a document was beginning to bleed through the page. 

“- first to know, darling. Of course.”

She had been talking, and Robert shook away the image of  _ Levinson _ and found her standing before him instead. 

“Of course,” he managed blindly, and then when she began toward the door, he stood. “Cora, when you speak to Mama, perhaps don't mention the list. She'll only badger you.”

But Cora looked over her shoulder as he reached around her for the knob. “Mama? Oh. No. She’ll wait. I'm going back to the girls.”

Robert sighed, shaking his head. “Cora -”

“I said I’d only be a moment, Robert. Nanny mentioned Edith being upset -”

“Darling,” Robert leaned closer to Cora who squared her jaw. “I’m sure that Nanny has it all well in hand. Let’s leave her to sort them, shall we? We mustn’t disrupt their schedule. They’ll be spoilt.”

With a huff, Cora took the glass knob from his grasp and pushed through the doors herself, Robert trailing behind to hear her protesting. “ _ Disrupt their schedule _ . I am their mother, Robert -”

“- of course you are, dearest one - “

Her dress hushed him as she turned quickly around, “- and if seeing them for more than just an hour after tea causes them to be spoiled, then so be it.”


	3. Chapter II - January

**Chapter II  
_January_**

She rinsed the red from her index finger in the wash basin, scrubbing with the new bar of lavender soap Perkins had left moments earlier. Once she had worked up a decent lather, she looked up to the mirror instead, furrowing her brow slightly at the cramp in her side -- ignoring the dirty chemise that her maid had forgotten.

_ . . . eighteen, nineteen, twenty . . . _

Cora paused for a moment and held her hands still. The water was cold. The soap was slick. Her belly ached. She stared at her reflection -- pale, drawn, tired -- but only for a moment. She wouldn’t think any longer on that. She’d sleep. Things would look better in the morning. 

She replaced the soap in the dish next to the bowl, dried her hands, and forced herself to pick up her soiled chemise. Robert, for all his masculinity, could not stand the sight of blood. So she rolled the undergarment tightly around her hand and then laid it on the chair where Perkins would see it, but Robert wouldn’t pay it any attention. She sent up a quick prayer that he wouldn’t ask her for a few days. And then another to help her steady her heartbeat.

She’d been late this month. She was usually as regular as clockwork; her body had always seemed to play a willing participant, never causing trouble, as enthusiastic as her husband. Even after Edith, even when she nursed her baby herself and her bleeding was absent for weeks and weeks after the birth, it had arrived again six months later, exactly when they’d decided they’d begin again, as if Fate was urging her on. And this month, she’d been late. Two days late — forty-eight hours of hope. 

“Cora?”

His voice sent her into a small panic. She let fresh water run over her hands and then she pressed her face. She wiped away the threat of tears.

_ Enough. _

Drying her hands once more, Cora dabbed her face with the towel, drying it too. 

“Cora, is that you?” Robert’s words slurred very slightly and Cora closed her eyes, amused in spite of herself. He’d stayed in the dining room alone, drinking, after Violet and Cora has gone through. It was unlike him, really, to have too much to drink without the excuse of a party, but with his father in London there was no one to keep him company — only herself and his mother. Perhaps Rosamund and her husband due in next week for the servant's ball wasn't as terrible a thing as she thought before. Marmaduke may taper him off - it was hard to say - but of course his father would come with them. And that was enough to taper anyone off.

She pushed through the door to her bedroom. Her candle flickered by her side of the bed, the fire crackled in her fireplace, and the yellow glow of it washed over her husband’s figure beside her bed. 

When his swimming eyes fell upon her, he laughed, and with a small hiccup he fell into her bed and struggled with the silken tie of his housecoat. And then the tie of his pajama bottoms.

Cora pulled in a deep breath, closed the already-open drawer of her bedside table, and climbed into bed herself. 

Robert’s drunken coordination shook the entire bed frame, the canopy above her moving erratically. Peering over at him, she found he was grinning naughtily at her as he wiggled to free himself of his pants. 

Cora rolled her eyes.

"What's the matter?" Robert frowned. "Shouldn't we?"

She understood the question, and her heart felt a little heavier. But looking over at his eyes, made brighter from drink, made her smile. She wanted to be annoyed, but she couldn’t be. He was endearing, even like this. Cora tipped her head toward him graciously and acquiesced. “Well . . . I wouldn't refuse a good night’s kiss.”

In one swift movement, Robert rolled towards her and kissed the side of her mouth. His lips were warm, and he tasted like brandy, but it still made Cora melt. 

She loved him. She loved the way he was soft with her, vulnerable even. She loved the way there was always a moment when their kisses drew on and on that she could tell her wanted her. And tonight it didn’t take long for that moment to come, and selfishly, she let it linger for longer than she should. But when she felt him press against her, she pulled away.

"Darling . . ." her hand went to his shoulder, and she moved her head slightly away from him. 

He followed her. He distributed some of his weight atop her smaller frame, the thin, unattractive cotton of her nightgown burned against her skin, beneath his clumsy fingers, and she desperately wanted it off of her. But of course, she couldn’t let it go on. Not in the direction it was going. So she searched with the pads of her fingers to find his palms and redirect them to her face, where she'd shake her head as they kissed.

And for whatever reason he'd nod, though she could tell he wasn't sure why really, and eventually one of his hands would find its way back to her thigh. 

Cora, however, was sure.

"Not that, darling," she mouthed against his lips. "Kiss me, but . . . . It's not —“

Robert kissed that place again, silencing her. He kissed her there, and then at her jaw, the line of it where the tired remains of her perfume slept. She heard as he took a deep breath in, and then as silence followed. Then stillness. And then he pulled slowly away. 

"Is it the drink? Why you don't wish to..." he trailed his words away, embarrassed suddenly. "I admit I did let it get away from me —“

"— No." She shifted beneath his arms, and her chest rose and fell with a deep breath. "It isn't that."

Robert furrowed his brow. "It isn't." His forefinger played at the ruffled cap at her shoulder. "Then you feel tired."

"It's not the right time, is all." She tilted her chin upward, and the corner of her mouth trembled into a smile. "Now then . . . kiss me?"

He lent downward, but then, he didn't. He only lingered there for a moment before he bobbed up again, and she could see the questions going around and around, swimming in the brandy.

And suddenly, even in the dim firelight, she saw his countenance change in an instant. He blinked. "Oh. Oh, my dearest one."

She blinked up at him, too, but wide-eyed. Afraid of what he thought. “Yes?"

"Are you very happy?" He moved his hand to her chin, her cheek. 

"What?" She shook her head against the pillow, "I mean, yes. I feel happy. But I don't -"

" — Then we shouldn't," Robert said. He lifted his brows. "Not until the doctor's given his permission."

_ Oh, God.  _ "Robert, no." This had happened before. He paid no attention to details, no attention to how long it had been since last she said she . . . wasn’t. In fact, for the past few months she felt she’d had to tell him  _ no _ over and over again. Her throat constricted. She reached a hand between them and pulled at the sheet, bringing it up to her chest. She wanted to disappear in the bedclothes."It's not the right time, is all."

He was perfectly still for a moment. He didn’t understand, and she watched his face scrunch in confusion. Cora’s womb cramped mockingly. 

"Dr Warren’s seen you?"

"No." She slapped the covers against herself. "He doesn’t need —“

“What do you-”

“Oh, for Heaven's sake, Robert!” she snapped. “Do I have to spell it out for you? I'm not pregnant. Just as it has been the twenty-two times before. I'm not pregnant, so if you don't mind, I'd like to go to sleep without having to relay all of the details."

She shifted further down into the bed, and she folded her hands across her midsection, irrationally hiding the flat plain that should’ve been swollen with a child nearly two and a half times over. 

There was a long period of silence, and instead of making it better, somehow, it made it worse. She felt her eyes sting and her nose flare, a precursor to tears. 

“Twenty-two?” 

She couldn’t respond. She’d fall apart. She pressed her lips together and somehow, she nodded. 

Another long period of silence.

"I apologize," he mumbled at last. He rolled away, gathered up his pants, and fixed them around his legs again. "If you aren't feeling well, I'll sleep in my dressing room—"

“— Robert—”

“ — and I can see I've upset you.”

"No, don’t. You haven’t.” Cora wasn’t mad, and he hadn’t upset her. It was . . . well, it wasn’t him. "Stay. Please?"

He swallowed as she buried her cheek into the pillow, her eyes on him. "I'm sorry.” 

After a moment, Robert sighed. “Oh, my dear,” he mumbled, and he slowly lowered himself back into the bed. She felt him glance at her several times as he worked, as he straightened the sheets around him, and then as he sighed. “And why didn’t anyone come and fetch me from the dining room? I was nearly under the table after all that. Brandy never suits me.”

Cora delighted in his levity. She laughed, gratefully, and turned to him. She smiled to herself as she looked at his pajama top, and then folded the collar of it correctly. Missing his closeness, she let her fingertip brush at the soft skin of his neck.

“You don’t mind, do you?” She ventured. She wasn’t used to being the anxious one.

He hummed, his eyes close, one hand behind his head.

“I mean to say, you aren’t upset about it taking such a long time?” Cora hated the way that sounded, so she added a lie. “It’s perfectly normal.”

He hummed again, but upon the words actually gathering between his ears, Robert frowned, thoughtfully. And Cora knew what he thought of. 

They’d never had trouble conceiving. Not really. With Mary it  _ had _ taken a year, but there was the pregnancy she’d lost before her, and before it, why they’d hardly known each other at all. Of course it took longer in those days. And then Edith had been so soon after Mary. It happened just as quickly as they’d been allowed to share a marital bed again . . . but now. 

_ Nearly two years.  _

Robert opened his eyes, and his head fell towards her.

She forced a tight smile. “Who knows,” her eyes watched the movement of her fingertip because she couldn’t look at him. “Perhaps boys take longer.”

And Robert was watching her as she forced another smile, and then chanced a glance up to him. He began to smile in return, but Cora could see that he could not make it in the end. In fact, he could manage nothing but a long stare until she broke away, settling down further beside him. 

“We could rest from it,” he whispered at some length, and Cora stilled. 

“Yes.” She barely recognized her own voice.

* * *

Throughout the course of the week, Cora assuaged any biting thoughts of infertility with the mantra she’d begun to repeat in her head for the last several months: Her womb was empty, but her nursery was not. 

Since Mary’s third birthday in late October, Cora would find any opportunity to slip into the day nursery. Most times it worked like a salve on her aching heart; the girls liked having her there, and she liked learning about them. Of course, she’d always seen them everyday, but it had not often been in their own space. Rather it was downstairs among the adults, of whom, Robert’s father was of the very strict opinion that small children should be seen and not heard. But here in the nursery, Cora could see them play. It did sometimes feel a bit awkward sitting in the day nursery with Nanny, for Nanny wouldn’t leave. Oh, she’d leave for five minutes to fetch something, but that was all. It was almost as if Nanny didn’t trust Cora, and among all of the adjustments Cora had to make to become more English and less American, this was truly foreign to her. Cora’s own upbringing had been so different than the upbringing she was giving her daughters. Cora had had a nanny, of course, but there was always Mother in the wings, making sure everything was just so. Mother was in charge. But with her own daughters, she felt as if Nanny was the one directing the choices. It almost felt as if the moment the girls had left her body, she had relinquished control of them, as if they weren’t hers anymore. She’d only produced them. 

She wondered what Robert’s childhood had been like in this room. He’d talked to her about it before, but he wasn’t one to use many adjectives. Nearly five years on, and she was still learning things about him that most people shared within the first few months. She knew he’d been happy enough, just as she had been. But he’d been sent off to school at the tender age of eight, and then to Eton shortly thereafter. As she supposed her son would be. Eventually.

Her daughters, though, would not leave her.

She sighed, content at this, and allowed herself to get lost in watching them as they played. Edith, two, looked like a Crawley. She had the blonde hair of Violet’s sister, the wild, curly locks of Robert’s, and -- even as quite a little thing -- Patrick’s prominent nose. 

Mary, on the other hand, could not be more different. She looked, at first glance, very much like Cora: brunette hair, fair skin, small features. However, her eyes were dark and sharp. Another trait of Robert’s father’s. 

A doll landed in Cora’s lap, bringing her back to present, and she smiled.

“And her is my doll, Mama. See her?”

“She is your doll?” Cora corrected Edith gently and pulled her into her lap alongside the toy. “And what is she called, darling?”

“Um . . . doll! And her has her frock, Mama. See?”

“She does indeed. How lovely.” Cora watched her daughter’s little, short fingers smooth down the blue of the doll’s dress, only to lift the doll again by her hair and turn her around. 

“It’s not Mary’s. It’s mine.”

Nanny wasted no time in reprimanding the child, barely looking up from her knitting. “Miss Edith, we mustn’t be unkind.”

Edith’s face dropped, but Mary’s lifted. She looked at Edith’s doll, dropped the wooden horse she played with, and walked over to her nanny. 

“Where is my papa?”

Cora would have preferred if Mary had asked her. “He’s downstairs with Granny, darling,” Cora called. “You’ll see him this afternoon.” 

Mary twisted around to look at her mother, and after a thoughtful toddling moment, stepped over her toy horses towards Cora. In her wake, Nanny’s broad frame stood and then stooped to the floor to collect them in a little basket. Cora wondered if Nanny had been quicker to fuss at Edith. Surely Mary should learn to clear her toys? Cora wasn’t sure, and furthermore she hated to admit how intimidating Nanny was.

As Mary drew nearer, Edith rested her head on Cora’s shoulder. Her elder daughter peered up at her, her dark lashes batting once, twice. “Mama?”

“Yes, darling?” Cora reached for her soft, little hand.

“May we go see Carson?”

Cora let out a breath. She didn’t mind the affection Mary had for the butler. In fact, it was rather sweet how tender the baritoned Carson could be with the three year old. But there was something there, when Mary had asked, that felt like jealousy. “Yes,” she nodded. She glanced up toward Nanny, who was watching the scene with a lack of expression. Cora smiled down at her child. “Nanny may bring you down to see Carson if you like, as long as you don’t disturb him.”

The little one smiled back, stared at her smaller sister for a moment, and then walked back over to the basket of horses, dumping them out again.


	4. Chapter III - February

_"Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers." - Alfred Lord Tennyson_

* * *

**Chapter III**

_**February** _

It was after the third deep sigh that his mother finally let her pen fall against Papa's desk, her eyes cutting to Robert over her reading glasses. "Are you going to say what's wrong, or shall I ring for Nanny and have her interpret for me?"

Robert closed his eyes. "Sorry, Mama. I didn't sleep well."

"No? My sympathies."

"I mean to say —"

Again Violet dropped her pen, and turned her head to him.

"- I've had quite a lot to think on as of late."

"Oh?" Violet lifted a brow. "Such as?"

Feeling the truth creeping into his mouth, Robert looked at the closed library door. "Where is Cora?"

"Cora?" His mother's interest piqued. "Is this about Cora?"

"Indirectly, though I would rather it stay between us."

He watched as his mother screwed the top of the fountain pen and replaced it gingerly upon the desktop. She removed her glasses and pivoted to him. "What is it?"

"And Cora?"

"She's upstairs in the nursery. She won't be down until an hour before tea. Now," Violet tipped her head, every so slightly as if encouraging Robert to speak. It was funny how he could feel so comforted by his mother, a woman he was oftentimes intimidated by. His mother wiggled her fingers toward him. "What is the matter?"

Robert tucked the papers he was reviewing before rounds with Jarvis into the space between his knee and the arm of the chair. "I want to begin by saying that there is nothing wrong between us -"

"— No?"

" — and that, while I'd rather not let Cora hear any of what I'm about to say, this is in no way a reflection of her."

His mother sighed and rolled her eyes. "Do you want to tell me or shall I continue my work?"

Robert pulled in a breath, and upon the exhale, pushed everything out. "It's something Papa said. And whether he meant something by it or not, I'm not sure. But now I can't stop thinking of it, and I feel I'm pressuring Cora into something that isn't quite fair."

"Something your father said?"

Robert peered up to see his mother lean in.

"What did he say?"

"Something about Mary."

"Mary? What could he have said about Mary?"

"It was quite a long time ago, I don't know why I'm thinking of it now -"

"What was it?"

Robert gave up and leaned back into the chair. "That we'll have her to enjoy until we've had an heir."

Mama was quiet, and after a long moment, Robert dared to look at her. "Like I said," he echoed. Her brows were drawn together at his interjection. "It was quite a while ago and I'm aware of how silly it is to think of it now. I can't say why -"

"- And Cora? Why don't you want Cora to hear this?"

But Robert couldn't answer that. He shook his head.

"Robert," his mother's voice had moved behind its lectern. He could sense her spine straighten, could sense her heart evening out its pace - detached and unbiased. "Your father's duty is to pass Downton on to you, and then to your son. You must understand his concern. Especially with the entail in place —"

"Yes - we know."

"And so what is bothering you? I'm sorry I do not understand. Is it Cora? Does she not want any more children?"

Robert let his mouth fall open, and then closed again, trying to form the words. "Yes. She does. Of course she does. She'd have a dozen, I think, if we were able."

"Oh," Violet brightened. "Well, that is encouraging! So then why do you feel as if you're pressuring her? Sounds to me as if you'd be the one under pressure." She chortled.

"Well, the thing is, we've been ... attempting ... with no results. For a while. Quite a while, actually. Such a 'while' that it seems rather unnatural. Though, I'm not sure."

Mama was thoughtful for a moment. "Has she felt the need to speak to the doctor?"

Robert didn't know and remained quiet.

"Have you?"

He didn't hide his unease at this question. "Mama, I ... that is ... I'll only say that nothing seems ... _amiss_."

"My dear, things of this nature are not always in our control. As much as we'd like them to be," her voice had crept back beside him, warming him again. "Cora is not to blame for the time it's taking. No one is to blame. Not directly. And about what your father says, you must realize that he is not an eloquent man. He does care for you, of course. He cares for you and for your daughters."

Robert smiled. "Thank you, Mama." And then, "Do you think I should mention this to him?"

"No."

Quite like a child, he watched her until he gathered enough sense to nod and then look to his knees. "Of course, you're right. As you say, Papa hasn't a way with words," he muttered, and in his periphery he could see her replace her glasses and pick up her pen.

"You mustn't let your own feelings color the words of others, Robert," she said in his direction. Quietly. She had begun to work again, glancing at him intermittently. "You've always been sensitive to your own feelings of inadequacy, while most of the time they're quite imagined."

"Are they?" Robert lifted his own papers, and stared at Papa's handwriting along the columns. Numbers jumped around the page, mocking him, and Robert shook his head. "I sometimes feel as if my imagined inadequacies, as you put them, are rather unimagined in the end."

"Yes, well, I've always said you're far too in your own head. It will happen, and I wouldn't worry anymore about it."

"Perhaps Cora would agree with you, though I doubt it. Regardless of what she says, I'm sure she feels the pressure keenly; and how can she not? Two years of nothing."

Mama was not usually speechless in conversation, and it was her long, still silence that frightened him. He put his papers down again and watched his mother shift opposite of him; he could sense the way she held her pen still, her chin turning back toward him. She did not look at him, Robert noticed, but only toward him and then to the windows beside Papa's desk.

"And you've tried . . . all this time?" Mama finally met his gaze. The conversation had shifted. Robert had finally made contact.

"So you see why I feel Cora may have lost hope."

"Is that what Cora says?"

"She didn't say that exactly. It was more …well, I got such a feeling that she was . . ." he sighed, "tired of it all."

Violet's brows lifted. "Well, we all get tired of it all. But Cora is still young. You are still young. You must encourage her."

"But at what point is it less encouraging and more pressuring? I've had a thought that if we weren't to have a son then perhaps Mary and young Patrick -"

At this, Mama let her hand fall to the table with a slap. Robert peered up at her, and held his breath.

"Don't be ridiculous! Do you want to marry off your daughter before she's out of the nursery?" She held up her hand, and the words Robert moved upon his lips fell short. "Trust me when I say that these things take time. I may not know much of how it all works, but I know well enough that trying to _achieve it_ is best done in joy. No child ever born with such expectations upon its head will ever meet them. So my advice is to stop, to rest, and to be patient. So no more of this defeatist nonsense."

She was done.

Robert watched his mother turn away from him and then wave him away, her other hand recollecting the pen she'd abandoned, her head trembling with agitation.

"Now, go," she said in his general direction. "I've got a lot to do and you've done nothing but distract me."

Robert collected his papers and replaced them hurriedly into the leather portfolio that Papa had saved them in. "Yes, Mama," he said, and then beneath his breath he added, "We'll stop."

* * *

Robert tried his best to banish the anxious thoughts of Cora, an heir, and his father in the few days that followed the conversation he'd had with his mother. Violet's support of Cora - or at least, lack of criticism - had touched Robert in an unexpected way. And while he understood that perhaps Mama was simply trying to temper the nervous fit she saw rising in him, he had elected instead to believe the former: Mama really felt that all of his worries over Cora and an heir would be for naught. And, because his mother seemed calm, the choice to wait to conceive felt lighter to carry.

Suppressing negative thoughts of his father, however, proved less successful.

In fact, they amplified as he returned from another morning with Jarvis, his father's estate agent, the two men being tossed about in the carriage as it hit muddy, slushy pits in the freshly-soaked winter road. Robert nodded to himself as he was jostled about, feeling as if it was apt.

Rounds had not gone well. Robert had asked too many questions, had made too much conversation with some of the tenants, had been too unlike Papa, and Jarvis did not mince words as they drove back to the Abbey, even closing his eyes and raising his voice in frustration at Robert's innocuous question over sheep.

"Lord Downton! I cannot say that I support your wanting to _meddle_ in what has been established —"

" — I only asked a question — "

"— Lord Grantham and I have gone to great lengths in order to ensure your heir, _and his heirs_ , will be financially _sound_. And your ... your ... _curiosity_ over tenants' debts and … and … priority of repairs has no place in the running of this estate! If anything, it hinders the efficiency of the tenant farm rounds. The tenants do _not_ need to be consulted for every decision!"

Robert opened his mouth to say something, but Jarvis continued without pause.

"Of course you are _interested_ \- as well you should be - but you have played your role in Downton's survival by ... by ... _securing_ the _means_ for the estate."

Robert's chest constricted in an instant. "You mean my wife's fortune. Yes. I am familiar with the entail. I _am familiar_ with Lady Downton's contribution to the estate, Jarvis!"

"And that, my lord, is your role. It is not your place to _usurp -"_

Robert erupted. "Usurp?"

"- or _question_ Lord Grantham's authority nor our decisions!"

Robert lifted his chin and turned away. He could not endure anymore, not now, especially when he knew Papa would likely be waiting for him, back at Downton.

Papa, with the scent of London still on him, lounging in the library with Rosamund and Marmaduke, all laughing and jolly while Robert shivered and seethed in a cold, wet, bouncing trap set for home.

Rationally, he comprehended that Papa did not choose when Parliament was in session, nor when the lords took recess; but he did know the pleasure Papa took in giving Robert his tenant portfolio as he waved them all goodbye.

Robert was frustrated. He was unhappy. And to top everything off, the servants' ball was tonight.

_Give me strength._

* * *

The moment Watson left his dressing room, Robert fled through the dividing door. He was happy to find her just as Perkins was leaving, Cora inspecting herself in the floor-length mirror. Draped in royal blue velvet and bits of satin, she turned this way and that, inspecting her trim waist that the bodice hugged tightly. He watched her as she ran a hand over the blue and silver brocade stitched there, and then as she smoothed down the short puff sleeve that hung off of her bare shoulder.

"Well?" she turned to him, expectantly. "How do I look?"

"A picture." Robert smiled at her and warmed when he detected a slight blush.

"Thank you, darling," she murmured back at the mirror. She stuck a loose piece of hair back into place. "Did you get your nap in? Carson said earlier that you were up here."

"Ah," Robert fell into the chair near her dressing table. "I did try to have a lie down. Gathering strength for the evening ahead. I thought you might have as well."

He delighted in Cora's small chuckle and roll of her eyes. "I don't dread it as you do."

"No," he admitted.

"We only have to stay half an hour." Cora picked up her gloves and began to put them on. "Has Mama given you instruction on who you should ask to dance first?"

"Perkins," he watched Cora lift her brows, amused. "Mama is to open the ball with Carson, as usual, and Papa with Mrs. Davies. So we'll have that to look forward to."

Cora laughed. "I thought your dear Papa swore he'd 'never dance with that cross woman again!' What did he say when Mama told him?"

Robert looked away. He had not seen his father since his return from London, and he'd rather not see him this evening. After the smacking that Jarvis gave him, Robert really only wanted to see Cora, and perhaps the girls.

"Robert?"

When Robert peered over to Cora, he saw she read him just as easily as she read the book lying on her bedside table. "After this morning, I decided it best to avoid him."

"Oh, my dear," she dropped her arms partway through her second glove. "What happened with Jarvis?"

He rolled a bit of fluff between his index finger and thumb, and flicked it away. "It seems I'm _meddling_ in Papa's management of the estate." In his periphery, he saw Cora lower her chin and narrow her eyes. "But I don't see how I'm not to meddle if Papa isn't even here. Honestly, the whole morning was a miserable affair. Which seems to be leading to an even more miserable evening. The ball should've been held weeks ago, after Christmas, but of course Papa was absent -"

"To attend the House of Lords, Robert," Cora chided. "I won't begin to share my opinion of your father's style of management ..." she didn't need to, Robert thought. The image of her name on the entailing contract had burned an indelible mark on his mind. She continued, "but even I can see it was out of his control."

Robert pouted; he knew he was being petulant and was momentarily ashamed of himself.

Cora, however, sparkled a smile at him. "Cheer up. The ball may not be miserable." She lifted her shoulders in excitement. "I've asked Nanny to let the girls stay for the first few dances."

"Cora, Mary is not yet four and Edith is barely two. They won't understand a thing that's going on."

"Mary is a very precocious child," Cora volleyed. She walked past him to the door. "And Edith hates to be left out."

Robert stood and laughed, "Isn't that the truth?"

* * *

"Lord Grantham is in the library now, my lord," Carson had met them by the landing of the stairs. "I believe her ladyships and Mr. Painswick are with him."

Robert nodded, "I can hear the music has already begun. Have all the staff come up?" Robert peered around at the various people who had begun to mingle in the great hall. Some of them he would only see at this event; they spent their lives in the attic and in the kitchen. Cora would perhaps be able to point out the kitchen maids she'd seen on her weekly visits down with Mama; but dressed in their finery would sometimes muddle her recognition of them. Robert felt a fleeting guilt over this - truly. It did seem rather odd that he didn't know the names of everyone who lived under this roof.

"Nearly all have arrived, my lord."

"Ah," they stood side-by-side. "Then we shall wear our smiles, shan't we Carson?"

"Yes m'lord," his eyebrows, which often expressed more than his voice did, bobbed up and down. "We must endeavor to endure."

Robert did laugh at that. Like many other things, he and Carson had a shared understanding of the servants' ball, though likely from different perspectives. While Robert was not looking forward to the superfluous dancing and rather awkward chatter, he knew Carson disliked the 'inflated sense of importance,' as he had put it, it gave some of the junior members of staff. He'd even complained to Robert after last year's ball how Timothy, a hallboy, had the 'audacity to remark on Lady Downton's appearance.' What about her appearance, Carson wouldn't say; and seeing as though Timothy did not appear above stairs but once or twice a year, the secret stayed in the servants' hall - as most secrets did.

"Nanny, thank you for bringing them down!"

His wife's exclamation nearly started him, and Robert watched as Cora bent down and extended her arms for their daughters. Edith immediately snuggled into her mother's embrace; Mary looked around her, touched her mother's hand, and then moved to Robert.

"Nanny said we could see dancing," his eldest daughter informed him, and he smiled.

"Yes." He offered to pick up his little girl, and she obliged. "I'm very glad you came." His heart fluttered a bit when her head rested for a moment on his shoulder, a quick hint of a hug. "Now then, in a tick you will go with Nanny while Mama and Papa dance, yes?" He kissed the side of Mary's dark head and set her upon her feet. "And Carson will dance with Granny."

"Carson dance?" Edith, who was still in Cora's arms, laughed. "That funny, Papa!"

"Oh, yes. And would you like to know something else? Grandpapa shall dance with Mrs. Davies!"

Edith's little peals of laughter tickled behind his ribs; Mary smirked. "Grandpapa! You will dance?"

The group spun to see Patrick, Violet, Rosamund, and Marmaduke entering from the library.

"Darling," Cora gently squeezed Robert's arm, and Robert looked down into her face. "Here he comes. Say hello."

Robert rolled his eyes. "We aren't arguing, Cora. Of course I'll say hello."

"Arguing with whom?" Robert's father stepped beside Cora, smiling very briefly at her, and at the children, before looking to Robert. "Has anything happened while I've been away? Except, of course, the abolition of bedtime."

Robert always seemed to straighten taller before his father. "No, Papa. And the girls will go up in a moment." Robert could feel Mary tug at his trousers, and her glanced down. "What is it?"

"Carson will dance? I want to see."

Papa laughed twice in his throat. "Indeed. And so you shall. Let us make a start." Patrick left their sides and walked across the great hall, people parting before him as if he was Moses. Violet whispered a hello to her eldest granddaughter as she moved past Robert and Cora, following behind her husband, nearly making a bee-line to where Carson stood, anticipating what came next.

"Good evening!" Patrick boomed. His voice sounded off the walls and high arched ceiling of the Abbey. "Thank you for your patience in this year's ball. I apologize that it's been a bit postponed, though I predict it won't affect the enjoyment we'll have tonight. Everyone be sure to drink, to eat, and to have a good time. Though we can't quite start without the music, can we?" There was a ripple of laughter here. "So without further ado, if we can, please?"

The music struck up, Papa walked to Mrs. Davies - who did not reciprocate his forced smile - Mama was encircled by Carson, and the dancing had begun. Behind him, Robert could hear Nanny whisk away his children, and his wife and sister begin to talk softly. Marmaduke had already acquired a short tumbler of whiskey and water and swirled it next to him now.

"So was there an argument, then?" Rosamund was pestering sometimes, truly.

Cora's elbow knocked against Robert as she turned more toward his sister. "Oh, it was nothing. Not really. Only Jarvis being troublesome."

"That doesn't sound like 'nothing.'" Rosamund peered around to Robert. "Troublesome?"

Marmaduke shushed his wife. "Dearest, I think they may be trying to avoid discussing it."

"I'm not asking to discuss it; only seeking clarification."

Robert watched somewhat bemusedly as his brother-in-law smirked and took another sip of his drink. "A thorough and descriptive clarification, I'm sure."

"Darling Marmaduke, you know that I never do anything in halves."

The group chuckled together at this, and Robert could feel the tension slowly leave his neck and shoulders.

"And speaking of doing things in halves, Cora dear, I believe you have a role to play in full." Rosamund quirked a dark red brow toward Robert's valet who was brazenly coming forth to claim his prize.

"Would you care for some of this?" Marmaduke lifted his nearly empty tumbler to Cora who just rolled her eyes with a smile.

"Stop it, all of you. Especially you, darling; your turn is next."

Robert felt his face ease into a smile at this, and at the sight of his wife being led onto the dance floor by Watson. He let his gaze follow Cora as she was spun in time to the music, and his heart swelled. Of course she was beautiful, but there was more than that. And he thanked God for it.

"You can't hide behind that silly expression, Robert. I can tell you're upset. We're blood."

He looked down at her with a sigh. "Why is it, Rosamund, that smiles are of no interest to you, but frowns are engaging?"

"A question for the ages, if ever there was one," Marmaduke mumbled into the last of his whiskey.

"Smiles tend to have far less intriguing stories behind them, haven't they?" Rosamund smirked as if she was the cleverest person in the room. "Especially if the story includes one or both of our beloved parents."

"How do you make that out?"

Rosamund looked at Cora twirling around the floor with his valet. "Oh, you know Cora. She isn't as discreet as she'd like to think she is."

Marmaduke gargled a laugh and lifted his glass. "Off for another. Would either of you like one?"

Both Robert and Rosamund shook their heads, and just as soon as Marmaduke was out of earshot, Robert muttered, "It isn't our parents. Not directly. It was Jarvis."

"Yes, I picked that up before. Now elaborate."

He sighed, "I'm not sure what else there is to say, Rosamund. Jarvis and I tend to set one another's teeth on edge. We had a massive quarrel this morning over some paltry little questions on my part, and he told me to stop meddling."

"Meddling? He does know you're the heir, doesn't it?"

"It doesn't seem so, no."

Cora had finished dancing with Watson now, and breaching all protocol, Robert and his sister watched on as Marmaduke claimed her with a bow. Rosamund grinned by Robert's side. "I sympathize, of course. I can only imagine the dread you're feeling for the next few weeks. Jarvis, too, probably."

He turned to his sister. "What do you mean?"

Rosamund looked at him. "Oh. Only that I'm sure Jarvis feels rather trapped by the situation as much as you, though I don't think he'll admit it. Not if he has any sense."

"No, I mean about 'the next few weeks'."

She raised a brow, "When Mama and Papa are in Marseille, of course."

"What?"

Rosamund blinked at him. "Marseille ... Papa has told you, hasn't he?"

"No." The tension that had left moments ago returned, nearly cramping his neck. He frowned and spied the table of drinks. "He did not."


End file.
